Rune Master

by Amelia Wilson

  He parked the car and struggled out onto his feet. There was a roaring in his ears like the sound of the sea raging against a wooden hull, and he swayed, unsteady. For a moment, he saw himself as he used to be, standing on the deck of his drekar with his brothers around him. He shook his head to clear it, but the vision refused to budge.

  Dark clouds. Angry lightning. The judgment of the gods. It was all around him now.

  A spasm of pain shook him, and he fell onto his knees. In his vision, the warrior beside him turned his head, his face wet with sea spray, his beard stained with blood. It was Gunnar. Erik reached a hand toward him, but his best friend refused to accept it, shaking his head.

  “No, brother,” Gunnar said. “It’s not yet time.”

  “Gunnar…” he groaned.

  The silver twisted inside of him again, and he groaned in agony. In his vision, the ship rocked, and he pitched forward onto the ground, landing face down on the asphalt. His last conscious awareness was of strong hands that grasped him under the arms and hauled him away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nika leaped to her feet when she felt the first bullet rip into Erik’s body. Ingrid watched her calmly. The young woman paced in the tiny house, her hands gripping each other in anxiety. She could feel his pain, could feel the way the silver was sapping his strength.

  Erik!

  Stay where you are, Chosen.

  She was marginally relieved to hear him respond to her so quickly, and his mental voice sounded strong, but she knew he was in horrible pain. It brought tears to her eyes. She spoke without looking at her companion. “Ingrid, he’s hurt.”

  “Do you know where he is, child?”

  “No.”

  “Can you help him with your tears?”

  Nika turned to face her. “No.”

  “Then dry them and sit here again. Calm yourself. You have much you need to learn, and you will help him more by learning it than by airing a woman’s grief.”

  It took everything she had, but she swallowed hard and sat back down facing the old woman.

  Ingrid smiled at her. “Good. Now put him from your mind so that you can concentrate.”

  “Put him from my mind!” she exclaimed, scandalized. “How can I do that? He’s my Chosen!”

  “No, darling. You are his. Until you are a vampire, too, you can’t Choose anybody.”

  She reached out to him. Erik, what’s happening?

  She heard Erik’s words, I was betrayed, and it was so full of hurt and physical agony that she could not contain her sorrow and fear. Nika buried her face in her hands and wept. Ingrid allowed her a moment, and then put another cup of tea in front of her.

  “Now, now, that’s enough.” She offered Nika a handkerchief and waited for her to pull herself together. “Your man is strong. He’s survived centuries. You don’t get to be that old without being very smart, and very tough, and very lucky.”

  Nika balled the cloth up in her hand. “How do you know him?”

  “Of course I know Erik Thorvald, Chieftain of the First, Champion of Odin, vessel of the Forest King. All Valtaeigr know him.”

  “Champion of Odin…?”

  “Yes. When the time comes, he will be fighting at Odin’s side.”

  She took a deep breath and reached out for him, but she could not sense him anymore. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away. “You’re talking about Ragnarök.”

  “And other things.”

  She was finding it difficult to sit still. Somewhere out there, Erik was hurt, possibly dying, maybe already dead. She fidgeted. “Do you have some sort of magic that can find him?”

  “Yes, but I won’t use it.”

  Nika looked at her, aghast. “Why not?”

  Ingrid smiled like a saint in some Renaissance painting, distantly unreal and serene. “He’s where he needs to be right now.”

  “How do you know?” She clenched her fist around the handkerchief and shifted in the chair, ready to bolt. “How do you know any of the things…”

  “I know because I have the gift of Seeing, and I have the gift of Foresight.” She looked unmoved by her guest’s emotional upset. “I know that he will not die this day, if that is what you fear the most. I also know that there are worse things than death.”

  She asked the obvious question. “What is happening with him?”

  “What needs to happen. There are consequences for every action. When we lay down with dogs, sometimes we get up with fleas.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He has kept bad company, and now he pays the price. Den som ger sig in i leken, får leken tåla. He who enters the game must endure it.” She waved a hand. “Enough about him. He is on his own path, and now you must see to yours.”

  Nika stilled herself. Ingrid was right. Having hysterics here and now would do nothing to help Erik, and it wasted time. She clenched her hands in her lap.

  “You have things you need to teach me.” It wasn’t a question.

  Ingrid nodded. “Yes. Are you prepared to learn?”

  “I must.”

  The old woman smiled. “I know. Now… I know you have questions. I have answers. The sooner we get you caught up to speed, the sooner we can get on with the work at hand. Ask me anything, Nika, and I’ll answer you if it’s relevant.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventy-six. Irrelevant. Try again.”

  “Who was Berit?”

  “She was your former self.”

  “I know that,” Nika said, beginning to feel irritable. “But who was she?”

  Ingrid took a deep breath. “She was King Magnus Barefoot’s daughter by a druid priestess from the Orkney Islands, which at that time belonged to the Norse. She was a princess, and she was beloved by her father. One day, the Draugr came to raid old Barefoot’s longhouse, and the Veithimathr came to help defend the humans against them. Berit was in the longhouse, and that was when she met Erik.

  “If you reach very far back into your mind, you no doubt will be able to remember. But that will be a story for another time. The important thing is that Berit became his love, and everyone could see it. They were a beautiful pair – the strong Veithimathr chieftain and the delicate Valtaeigr princess.”

  She studied Nika’s face, her head tilted to the side as she considered her. “You resemble her, you know. Berit. But you are stronger. She was never a healthy woman.”

  “Is that why the vessel ritual killed her?”

  Ingrid nodded. “Yes. Do you remember it?”

  “No. I remember the altar, and the chanting, and I remember Erik bringing me the cup that the priestess had prepared. The rest is gone.”

  “That is a blessing,” the old woman told her. “Berit did not die well.”

  That was an unsettling thing to hear. She shifted slightly in her seat. “Erik told me that I have the blood of immortals in my veins. Am I descended from the Draugr?”

  “No, dear. The Draugr are dead. They cannot create offspring in that way. You are Valtaeigr, descended from the line of priestesses called the vala. If you were full-blooded, you would be immortal, as the pure Valtaeigr are.”

  “But not Draugr?”

  “No. Our immortality comes from a different source. We were not cursed by Odin. We were blessed by Hel.”

  Nika’s stomach soured. “By Hel? The Goddess of the underworld?”

  “Yes. She who is half alive and half dead, the light and the dark. She will be the source of Ragnarök one day. We Valtaeigr are the workers of the light half of her spirit – the seers, the magic users, the healers.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but is there a group who represent her dark half?”

  Ingrid nodded. “Yes. Immaterial for now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The old woman laughed. “Child, I am Frigg. I see all. Of course I am sure.”

  She reached out for Erik again, almost reflexively, and received nothing but an echo. She sighed. “Do the Valtaeigr predate the
Draugr?”

  “Yes. We go back into the mists of time, so far that the sagas cannot tell us when we began.”

  “What magic can the Valtaeigr do?”

  Ingrid smiled broadly. “Ah! At last, one of the questions I have been waiting for you to ask.”

  She went up the ladder to the loft and came back down a few moments later with a massive leather-bound book. It was girded with iron, with locking clasps holding the covers shut. Ingrid put the book on the table in front of Nika.

  “Open it, child.”

  She looked at the book carefully without touching it, trying to gauge its antiquity and fragility. The leather was both clearly old and in pristine condition. It appeared to be from the skin of a cow. The iron bands that secured the cover were speckled with oxidation, but someone had cared for it, keeping the metal oiled and rubbed. She hesitantly reached out a finger to touch one of the locks.

  Before she even made contact with it, the lock sprang open, and the book flipped onto its spine. The boards fell to the side and the pages flipped rapidly like leaves in the wind, riffling through from back to front until finally the book fell open. The pages that were now displayed were covered with a painted rendering of destruction. A wooden palisade at the top of a hill was burning, and men were tied to the posts, caught in the inferno. In the foreground, a trio of women stood, books in their hands. Their mouths were open in the painting.

  “I’ve seen before,” she breathed, “In a dream.”

  “Tell me your dream.”

  “I had it several times when I was a teenager, but I haven’t had it for years. I don’t remember all of the details now. But... in the dream, I was standing with my sisters and we were praying. Chanting. And we were burning people alive as sacrifices.”

  Ingrid nodded and pointed to the trio of women in the picture. “This is Frigg. This is Ithunn. This… this one is Hel.” She nodded into Nika’s look of surprise. “This is when the gods walked the earth. This is when the Valtaeigr were created.”

  “Those poor people in that fire…”

  “They were killers and thieves. Do not waste your tears on them.” She pushed the book toward her. “You wanted to know what magic we can do. It is all in there, but until you relearn Old Norse, the writings won’t be of any use to you. I can tell you that we can heal. We have the gift of prophecy. And we have the gift of rune casting.”

  “Rune casting?”

  She smiled. “Yes. It’s the art of reading the future in the runes, and some Valtaeigr have the ability to scribe runes and imbue them with great power.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of tires on the gravel drive. Ingrid frowned and stood. Nika looked up at her. “Were you expecting someone?”

  “No.”

  The old woman went to the front window and looked out. When she parted the curtain, Nika could see a gleaming black sedan. A tall blonde woman exited the vehicle, her smart suit and high heels making her look out of place. She was wearing dark glasses and leather gloves, and her hair was swept up into an immaculate bun.

  Ingrid opened the door. “Angrboda.”

  The visitor removed her sunglasses. “Frigg. May I come in? I have business with Ithunn.”

  “Ithunn isn’t here.”

  Angrboda’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me, old woman, or you’ll be preparing for your next incarnation.”

  “I do not lie. Ithunn is not here, but her vessel is.”

  Nika, tired of being spoken of in the third person, went to the door. “What do you want?”

  The newcomer smiled tightly. “I have a message for you. My lord would like to meet with you, alone, to discuss a business proposition.” She held out a business card. When neither Nika nor Ingrid moved to take it, she tucked it into the fence. “The time and place are written there.”

  “What if I don’t show?”

  “Then my master will kill Erik Thorvald.”

  Nika’s stomach lurched. “And who is your master?”

  “I am Angrboda,” the woman said archly. “Work it out.”

  She climbed back into her car and drove away. Ingrid stayed in the doorway with her arms crossed until the car was out of sight.

  “Loki,” Nika said. “Angrboda was his wife.”

  Ingrid nodded. She took the card and handed it to Nika. “You will not be seeing him alone, not until you’re ready.”

  “When will that be?”

  She put her hand on Nika’s arm and guided her back into the house. “That all depends on how quickly you can learn.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He woke to pain hanging over him like a blanket. He was blindfolded and manacled, lying on a hard, cold surface that he assumed was a floor. His body was still burning from the silver bullets that remained lodged inside of him, and the bones he had broken in his fall had not healed. He groaned.

  “You’re awake.” It was a man’s voice, completely unfamiliar. He was speaking Old Norse.

  “So it seems,” he replied, using the same tongue. He struggled to sit upright, but when he tried to move, his body refused to obey. The effort made his suffering close over him, and he fell still, trying not to lose consciousness again. “Where am I?”

  The man chuckled. “Somewhere safe from the mortals who were trying to kill you.”

  Every breath Erik took was a fiery misery. He stayed silent.

  His captor spoke again. “Why do you think they were trying to shoot you, Thorvald?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  He heard footsteps approaching, with the crunch of hard soles on pavement. There was an echo of the sound, and he guessed that he must be in a basement or some sort of concrete bunker. He wished he could see.

  The man crouched down beside him and stuck a probing finger into the bullet wound in his gut. Erik groaned in agony and tried unsuccessfully to evade the intrusion. The man clicked his tongue.

  “You realize, of course, that this is what happens when you teach humans how to kill your own kind. Eventually they turn on you. Seems fitting for a traitor like you.”

  The man pulled his finger away, and he could hear soft, wet sounds. He could imagine that the man was licking the blood off of his finger. He opened his senses and confirmed that his keeper was a Draugr, and an old one, to boot.

  “I’m no traitor,” he murmured. Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He had betrayed Hakon to become Veithimathr, and in the eyes of many of the Draugr, he and his brothers had all become traitors for defending humanity against their own kind.

  His captor snorted. Erik could hear him walk away. A door opened and closed, and a key turned in a lock. He was alone. Worse, he was helpless.

  He could taste the silver in the back of his throat, cloying and toxic. It galled him that after everything he had overcome, he would be consigned to slow death by poison, shackled in some concrete prison cell.

  There was still so much left undone.

  ***

  He spent hours drifting in and out of consciousness. It felt like swimming in a vast internal ocean, trapped within the confines of his own soul and struggling to reach the surface. He was drowning in his own blood.

  He was startled awake by the press of cold steel into his shoulder, cutting the flesh. He hissed at the new pain, unable to make any other protest. Someone was cutting the bullet out of him. The silver slug had been burrowing, and it took some time for his unkind physician to locate it. Erik’s fangs extended, called down by his extremity, and he gnashed them in agony and rage.

  “Quiet,” a woman’s voice said. She reached into the wound with her fingers, digging and probing, and she finally pulled the bullet free. His body convulsed as she withdrew her hand.

  He could suddenly smell dreyri, and if he’d had a voice, he would have begged. His thirst roared within him, more powerful than it had been since he’d been made veithimathr.

  “Open your mouth,” she commanded.

  He obeyed. A single drop of the enchanted blood fell upon his tongue, el
ectrifying him. When no more drops followed, he moaned in protest. His unsatisfied thirst raged.

  His torturer walked away, leaving him alone again.

  ***

  Nika sat in Ingrid’s house, contemplating the card that Angrboda had left for her. It was the same as the card that Sigurd had left in her apartment in Central City, with the same hand-rendered interweave decoration on the back. On the front, in an elegant hand, it said: One week from today, 11 am. Snake Eyes.

  Her hostess looked up from the cook stove, where she was busily preparing the evening meal. “We will keep that appointment, young one, but we have a lot of work to do before then. You must be prepared.”

  “I understand.”

  She ran a hand over her forehead. She had a splitting headache, caused partially by tension and partially by the fact that she was several hours overdue for her next dose of dreyri. She wondered if she was in some form of withdrawal.

  Ingrid put dinner on two plates and placed them on the table. “Come and eat, child.”

  Nika had no taste for food, but she obeyed. She felt dulled and diminished. She sat at the table but did not take up her fork.

  “The need will pass soon,” Ingrid promised her. “Then you will be clear-headed and your training can begin.”

  “So I’m feeling this way because of the dreyri?”

  “Because of the lack of it, yes.” She sipped from her cup, then said, “Tomorrow morning we will start with simple things, like feeling your power. Depending on how quickly you master it, we will move on from there.”

  Nika picked up her fork and listlessly pushed some food around on the plate. “What does Loki want with me?”

  Ingrid hesitated, clearly weighing her words carefully. “You are a special person. You are the seventh incarnation of Ithunn. That gives you power beyond that of normal valtaeigr. You can wield more magic than others, and you are more susceptible to others’ magic than others, as well. It is a double-edged sword.”

  “He wants my power?” she asked dubiously. She didn’t feel very powerful.

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  She fell silent again. Thoughts of Erik crossed her mind, and she felt the sting of unshed tears pricking her eyes. She pushed her plate away.